Honorable Son
by Destined for Normalcy
Summary: In 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and Sasuke's peaceful American life ruined. Soon after this historical day, Executive order 9066 is signed, and the Uchiha family is sent to the internment camp Topaz. There he meets Uzumaki Naruto. Narusasu
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Father had been of the line of Samurai, or so he said and I was always taught that who I was, who the family was, was based on our honor. Even if we had no money, no status, no power, as long as we had our honor even the richest of men could not count us as poor. To shame that would be the greatest sin I could ever commit. If I learned nothing else from my father before he died, it was that.

I grew up as an American boy, with a Japanese face and name, Japanese principles, and the thirst to always keep my honor, my very being, pure and clean.

Then on December 7, 1941, the Japanese air force attacked Pearl Harbor, and the Honor I had striven to keep so clean was tarnished beyond all repair.

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Honorable Son

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I remember that we woke up that morning like every morning before that. We sat around our kitchen table, ready for a leisurely slow Sunday. Mother had made fresh rice and some miso for the morning, and as I sat down at the tableItachi came in with the newspaper for our father. Every morning Itachi would go get the paper before breakfast, and when my father was ready to leave I would fetch his hat before he went out to go and sell groceries at our store down the street. It was a ritual, and one that our strictly firm father expected us to adhere to every day. Except on Sundays Itachi and I would usually go with him to the store and help him stock the shelves. There was no deviation – not in my entire fifteen years of living.

Except today already seemed to be different As Itachi entered the kitchen with the newspaper in hand, he was pale in bad way. The grey bundle – darkened from the damp fog - of paper was being held loosely in his fingers, and his mouth had fallen open ever so slightly as he inhaled a barely heard breath. Black eyes – Jap eyes was what the kids at school called them – were practically flying over the front page of the paper, and as Itachi paused in the doorway of the kitchen I felt a moment of discomfort. Itachi didn't usually react to things in the paper. He called the aggressive style of writing that many newspaper articles had a 'Crude transport for fear propaganda and bigoted opinions of the masses'. He would usually glance at the front page, but he never bothered to read anything else. Our father said that Itachi was just arrogant with youth and intelligence. This always irritated Itachi, which made him hate the newspaper even more.

So I was suitably shocked – and a little bit worried – when Itachi finished reading what was written on the front page of the paper and immediately opened the paper to continue reading. I didn't have time to dwell on his actions though, because when he opened the paper – still frozen in the doorway into the kitchen like he was – I could read what headline had made my usually stoic, verging on cynically apathetic older brother act like he actually cared about what the newspaper had to say.

JAPS BOMB HAWAII

Declare war on U.S. and Britain!

I promptly dropped the rice I'd been holding with my chopsticks, my mouth falling victim to gravity, and I let out a strangled sound of horror.

"Itachi," I said with a strained voice, "Is that-,"

"Shut up!" he hushed me harshly, in only the way he could. Instead of arguing the matter like I usually would havethough I just kept goggling at the front page, my heart sinking in my chest from horror as my mind immediately started to jump to what this meant for my family. Mother on the other hand, who had just looked up to scold Itachi for his crude words to me, was not as silent. The lacquer rice bowl that she'd had in her hand and the rice paddle she'd been scooping the rice into it with fell to the floor with a high pitched 'tokk!' sound against our newly installed linoleum floors, I looked up to her – tearing my eyes from the provocative headline – and swallowed.

She had both of her hands pressed against her mouth her face looking washed out against the fabric of her pale pink dress, and her eyes were bright. She shook her head, and I could hear her whisper against her hands in Japanese, "It can't be…"

We knew that this did not bode well.

Ever since the war broke out, since it was known that Japan was steadily making its way into mainland Asia, there had been fearful eyes following us everywhere we went. Business had dropped at our family store, and the strained relations with our white neighbors grew even more tense. Though America was not at war, they knew that across the Pacific was a nation of slant eyed people who were invading another country with unparalleled brutality and success.

Itachi said that it only bothered them because Japanese people looked so different from them. The German American citizens looked just like everyone else, so they were never singled out in suspicion. The Russians were tolerable, the Italians were ignorable, and the Jews were pitiable. People could forget that they hadn't lived in America for very long, could allow themselves to wallow in ignorance for _them. _ We were too different to ignore… we were fair game. I remember getting shivers from the look in my brother's eyes when he said that. He looked so calmly full of hatred and disgust. I had wanted to prove him wrong back then, but now... this new development meant that our world would soon be full of fearful reactions and hatred rather than the mostly ambivalent and harmless caution we had gotten used to. We all knew it, and I felt that part of me that yearned to prove my older brother wrong fall back behind an even more urgent feeling of nervous fear.

"Itachi," Mother said in a small voice, "Put that somewhere else," the words were followed by a flinch as we heard the second step from the top of the stairs creak. Father was on his way down, and none of us wanted him to see this paper right now, "Don't let Father see that," she demanded, already taking steps to keep our family together and safe for the tumultuous hours ahead. Itachi looked around for a moment, trying to find a place to stow the paper, but there was nowhere that he could really put it that our father wouldn't see it after a few moments in the kitchen. Finally his eyes landed on me and the chair I was sitting on, and his eyes grew sharp.

"Stand up," he commanded me, and I glanced to the stairs that opened up into the kitchen quickly obeying. Usually I hated it when Itachi used that voice; it was the 'I'm the oldest son – obey me,' voice and I tended to ignore it on principle. This time though, I felt the gravity of the situation and did as he told me. He folded the paper quickly and stuck it on the seat of the chair, before pushing me down on it quickly. I jolted as the cool paper pressed against the thin pajama pants that I wore. It really was quite damp from the foggy weather we'd been having lately, and it was probably the most uncomfortable thing I'd had to do in quite awhile. I didn't protest though, and held my peace as my stern father entered the room.

"Good morning." My mother spoke her words softly and weakly bent down to pick up the bowl and rice paddle she'd dropped moments ago. My father grunted and sat down at the head of the table, taking the bowl of soup that my mother handed him with a nod towards her hard work.

I watched him do this with my back stiff against my chair, and swallowed nervously as I turned my attention to Itachi with wide eyes as he sat down at his place across from me at the table. The damp paper on my chair felt more like a burning hot brand as I realized that my father wouldn't have to look very hard to find the paper if he really wanted it. I hesitantly cleared my throat and looked down at my bowl of rice searchingly, "I…itadakem-masu," I said, wishing that my voice hadn't broken at this moment of all moments. Father would surely know that something was wrong, and he would find out about the paper, and then he would…

…I didn't actually know what it was he would do, but I just had this gut feeling that it would be bad. Father just raised his eyebrow at me, "Your voice is still changing?" he asked rhetorically before starting to eat methodically. He didn't expect an answer – he never expected me to respond when he spoke to me. In fact, I was pretty sure that if I did respond he would be more insulted than if I ignored him, so I just kept quiet, and kept eating my breakfast. For once, I didn't gripe about having a Japanese breakfast instead of eggs, bacon and toast like other kids and the absence of it was a little strange.

"Where's the paper?" Father asked Itachi as he ate his breakfast stoically. My seventeen year old brother stiffened at the question uncomfortably, and looked down at his rice as he answered.

"It hasn't come yet." Father nodded at the answer, spoke something degrading about American work ethic in gruff and masculine Japanese that I didn't quite catch, then continued to eat. The room was painfully silent, broken by the occasional sound of someone chewing, or a slurping at their soup. Usually Itachi and I would be bickering at this point, and our mother would try and calm us patiently until our father lost his temper and demanded our silence. Logically, my father would _have_ to realize something was wrong just because of the silence.

It was uncomfortable, sitting so tense against the paper, and though it was warming up from my body heat, I still couldn't quite relax and swallow my food properly. It was just sort of getting stuck in my throat as I tried to ea—

"Sasuke," my father said, and I jumped in fright at the interruption of the silence. I wished that I hadn't. The movement I made on my chair from the jump rustled the paper beneath me, and the sound was almost heart stopping. I think that the horror in my eyes spoke even more than the sound of the paper did, and Father slowly put down his rice and chopsticks, this time spoke to me with the expectation of an answer, "Sasuke," he said again, making me flinch, "Where is the paper?"

I looked quickly at my father, and then looked at my brother in panic. I met an identical pair of horrified dark – no they were Jap eyes, weren't they? – eyes. He didn't know what to do either, and I bit my lip as I very slowly looked at my father again. He looked at me expectantly, anger starting to build behind a deceptively calm face, and I very slowly reached down and pulled the paper out from underneath me and handed it to him.

His face showed no reaction to the headline as he took the paper from me and read, "Go open up the store boys," he commanded, and I quickly stood up**,** ready to obey.

"But father," Itachi started to say, perhaps ask him what he was thinking, but was instead stopped dead in his tracks.

"I said GO!" the man yelled, and before I knew it, Itachi and I were all but running from the room. Our father never yelled, and we both knew then that he was just as horrified by the news as we were. We also knew though, even as we were putting on our shoes and fumbling out of the door, that our father's honor in his home country was irreversibly tarnished. There was only one thing to be done at that point, and we knew that Fuugaku Uchiha would react like a Samurai as he'd always done before this.

Father's funeral was held three days later, and I knew even when we were passing his bones chopstick to chopstick into an urn – a proper Japanese funeral tradition - that things would only get worse before getting better. Itachi agreed with me, we knew that something was happening, and we lived the next two months just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then finally, on February 19 1942, it happened.

Executive Order 9066 was signed.

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So this is my attempt at an original AU fic for this genre. I've seen some World War two fics out there, but I'd never seen them set in an internment camp. Any readers have an opinion on what Camp I send them to? I was thinking Topaz myself, as that was where I had family interned at.

As always, reviews are loved, I'll especially love a review with constructive criticism. Also, I'd loveto add thanks to ruenruen and strawberries and napkins for working with me so extensively with plot detailing as well as beta work. You guys rawk.

Whew, that was kind of emotionally draining. I hope that the rest of the story isn't this difficult to write D:


	2. Chapter 2

Itachi was furious.

It wasn't the red hot angry fury that made people want to protest, scream, or yell. No, my older brother's fury was a kind that bit at your fingertips like the cold air that cut to your bones. I hated it when Executive Order 9066 came up, because then Itachi would just become angry and frankly, it was at those times that Itachi reminded me of father the most. Then was when the bitter torrent of sadness and hurt hit me the most. It had been a little more than two months since the funeral, and still it tore at me in a gut wrenching emotional pain that my father had chosen to leave us on our own when we needed him the most.

However, temporarily I would find myself forgetting about it, getting distracted by the things that were happening in the here and now. With all that was going on, I was surprised that I didn't forget more than what I already did. It was almost ridiculous how hearing a rumor about a mass 'evacuation' of the Japanese Americans all throughout California could make me forget about the feelings of sadness, and instead make me focus on my own conflicting emotions of indignation and resignation. Why weren't they rounding up the German American citizens? Or the Italians? We were at war with them too, not just Japan! It struck me as unfair that even the Nissei - the second generation Japanese Americans, the ones who'd been born here in the 'States – were being shunted into the same category of 'those Japs'. I wasn't a Jap! I was an American Citizen! But no one could see the difference. Congress men advocated for "Catching every Japanese in America, Alaska, and Hawaii now and putting them in concentration camps… Damn them! Let's get rid of them now!" and the attorney general of California said that Japanese Americans had "infiltrated…every strategic spot," like we were spy's of some sort! And General John L. DeWitt summed up the overall mentality of America by stating "A Jap is a Jap!"

A Jap is a Jap? But I'd never been to Japan in my lifetime. I spoke Japanese, yes, and I had rice and miso soup for breakfast when my mother made it. However, I wore red white and blue at the Summer Olympics held in Los Angeles, and I cheered on the American teams. My family bought war bonds, just like any other American family, and we flew the American flag on Independence Day! What was to say that we were any less American that the Norwegian family down the street, besides our faces?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

That's what made it so bitter when the evacuations actually started. General DeWitt took great pleasure in submitting the order to have Terminal Island, a fishing community near San Pedro, be the first place for the 'evacuations' to take place. Since these people were close to a naval base, they were giving neither leeway nor understanding. They had three days to pack up their lives and submit to wherever it was the Government was taking them. They were forced to sell everything, and were horribly exploited, suffering painful financial loss. Everyone knew that this was real now, and were just waiting for their turn. Mother started to pack some of our nicer things as soon as we first heard the news. All of our books that we didn't read, all of our plates and glassware was put carefully away into our basement in boxes, and the photo albums that we'd filled near to bulging over the years were wrapped up lovingly and sent to our cousins in New York.

It left a bitter taste in my mouth, watching my mother keeping her head held high as she submitted to the hysteric whims of the our government. The government of the free. Itachi and I had tried to get her to stop packing, telling her that it might not even affect us, and that it was silly to worry about it now but all we got in return was a scolding. She told us that it was always best to be prepared.

I'd been hoping that mother was just being overly cautious, my instinctual pride in my country warring with my more practical pragmatic side. I was hoping that this would all blow over, and that my family would not be torn up more than it already had been. However the five-mile travel limit and the 8:00 p.m. curfew stood in place and taunted my optimism. We were being treated like prisoners in our own country.

Then on April 21st a new headline shattered the fragile order I'd managed to gather, and the calm in the Uchiha family.

**Japs Given Evacuation Orders Here!**

**Moving swiftly, without any advance notice, the Western Defense Command today ordered Berkeley's estimated 1,319 Japanese, aliens and citizens alike, evacuated to the Tanforan Assembly center by noon, May 1.**

That left us exactly ten days to pack up our entire lives into 'whatever we could carry'. 

And Itachi was furious.

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Here's another chapter. It's kind of short, but I want to do some more research on Tanforan Assembly center before I write anything about it. As always, reviews are nice, and opinions are divine.

Loves~


	3. Chapter 3

After we'd been given the order to 'evacuate' our entire family had been thrown into a state of disarray. Itachi, as the only one in the family that drove, stopped going to school, and instead took up the task of taking our larger possessions out to sell them, and to come back with some suitcases for us to take. We'd just been informed that we must take what we could carry, and so Itachi and myself vowed that we would take _everything_ that we needed if it killed us. In my bags went my clothing – a few light shirts and a few sweaters each, because no one knew if where we were going would be cold or not, some books – mother was very strict in wanting us to bring along the Japanese readers that we had been half heartedly studying for the past few years – as well as socks, underwear, a good luck charm that my grandmother had sent from Japan while I was sick as a child, and one of my father's silk handkerchiefs. After I had that packed, I was responsible for packing what was left in my room into boxes so that Itachi could take them to the storage facility that would hold our most important items for the duration of our evacuation. After that, I went and helped my mother pack our household items away. A neighbor down the street had offered to buy some of our dishes and we very carefully packed our china into newspaper for the transport, though I couldn't help but feel angry when I learned that mother had sold our finest china for a mere pittance of what they were worth.

It seemed like ten days passed in the time of one or two days instead. I hardly felt prepared when we made our way down to the First Congregational Church that was designated as the Civil Control Center that our family was to report to. I struggled under the weight of the sack I'd thrown over my shoulder as well as the suitcases I held, one in each hand, but I knew that Itachi was struggling under the same load and since he wasn't complaining, I wasn't going to either. The bags that Itachi and I both carried on our backs were our house hold goods, some dishware –as we were instructed to bring – blankets, tea pot, electric hot plate, extra sheets, our pillows, and so on. They were the bulkiest of our packs but they were also one of the most important things we carried, so I guessed that was why Itachi just bit his tongue and bore with it, even though we later learned that our teapot had been digging into his back hard enough to leave a vivid and dark bruise.

Mother insisted on carrying her share of the load as well, but as her sons Itachi and I both fought to keep her bags as light as possible. Perhaps it was something that was disrespectful to her, doubting her ability like that... but in this infuriating situation where there was almost nothing we _could _do, we took what we could into our own hands – almost vicariously.

When we had reached the church I felt a hole open up in the pit of my stomach as I met the gaze of an armed guard standing near the entrance. His green eyes met mine briefly and I wondered what he thought of me. Did he think I was dangerous? A scrawny fifteen year old who only stood about a half a foot taller than the five foot two woman that was walking next to him? Loaded down with bags, and weary with nervous energy? He didn't meet my eyes for long, instead focusing on the space above my head, and he gripped his gun a little more tightly – the sun glinting off of his mounted bayonet. I took a step away from him closer to my mother, a sign of insecurity that I wished I could have denied. I must have looked scared, because immediately my mother had wrapped her free arm around mine, claiming fatigue. I was glad she had given me an excuse to linger against her touch, as the familiar warmth of my mothers comfort calmed me significantly.

I didn't know what it was my mother and brother were thinking at that point as we were shuffled into the church. There was no way for me to know, no one in our family had ever been the type to share their feelings, and now that we were all a little hurt and vulnerable – or at least I was – was the last time we were going to start. But I do remember feeling like... well like it wasn't really going on. Like I wasn't about to be sent to an assembly center somewhere because the country that I had been born in, that I had grown up loving and caring for despite it's faults, was irrationally scared that we were passing along information. That we would kill them in their sleep. That we were planting bombs in their gardens. That we would poison their food. That we would... I didn't even know what it was they were really scared of anymore. I had rationalized the actions of my fearful peers so many times that the excuses were rolling around my head in a big jumble of thoughts and none of them made sense to me anymore. Not as I had woken up in the morning, and not now as I stood awkwardly among a group of silently terrified Japanese Americans in the main hall of the church.

There were refreshments though, a quietly hysterical part of me realized. Some ladies at the church had been thoughtful enough to make little ham sandwiches for us while we waited. My mother pushed one into both mine and Itachi's hands with the command to eat, but the soft bread tasted like ash in my mouth and felt heavy in my stomach. I wanted to throw up but I didn't do it. I'd felt like I'd been one step away from vomiting ever since that horrible day in December. One step away from crying too, but that hadn't happened yet either. I didn't meet anyone else's eyes as we waited for the trucks to come pick us up – not after that soldier by the door. I felt a little ashamed and I couldn't stand to let anyone see that shame lingering in my eyes. I didn't really understand it, but there was something about myself that I felt I had to be ashamed about. Was it because I was Japanese? Was it because I was American?

I didn't think it was fair that I had to choose.

Then the buses came and I didn't have to anymore. Because the hustle and bustle that was everyone loading their bags, getting onto the buses – saying one last goodbye to this place that used to be our home, our neighborhood – took precedence over everything else and I could let that divert my confused thoughts. Then Mother, Itachi, and I got onto one of the buses and we began our one way journey through the streets we'd often traveled in our own car. With father driving sourly – squinting as he tried to decipher the street signs and lights and people. He had always had bad vision, but disliked wearing the glasses he had for that. Itachi and I thought it was kind of stupid, but knew not to say anything. We just looked at each other significantly and held onto the seat with white knuckled grasps whenever our father drove. The memory caused a lump to build in my throat as I watched familiar landmarks slip past us. I was glad that not many people were talking, but I wished there were more movement going on around us so that when I bent my head and ran my fingers across my eyes to wipe away tears that it would have been less noticeable. It didn't really matter though, because I wasn't the only one crying softly. Some people passed the time in stony silence, others tried to talk quietly amongst themselves, and still others just looked lost.

I only allowed for a few more silent tears to fall before I gathered myself and refused to fall victim to anymore tears. Itachi, who was sitting next to me, said nothing. He did press his hand against my shoulder in a quick gesture of... I don't know comfort maybe? Itachi wasn't usually the comforting type, but we weren't usually in situations like this where our entire lives were going up in flames before our eyes. I accepted the motion for what it was though, and looked up at him gratefully through the corners of my eyes. My pride wouldn't allow for anything more than that.

As our bus drove down the highway, very gradually the grandstand of the Tanforan racetrack came into view. The first thing I noticed about it was that it was surrounded by barbed wire with guard towers at regular intervals along the fence line. The urge to vomit came over me again, but I really refused to fall victim to that prompting. Nonetheless the taste of bile was the first thing that I really associate with the first step of our forced evacuation. This was to be our _home_ until the government was able to put together inland camps as far away from the west coast as they could get them.

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so I just got home from Washington D.C. and I spent a long time the Japanese American Internment memorial. I just sat down next to the reflection pool and looked at the wall that listed every internment camp and how many people had been interned there. In front of that wall was a sad and beautiful statue of two cranes tied down with barbed wire. The image really stuck with me, and when I got to my laptop I edited this chapter briefly. It really made me want to post this chapter. I haven't had it beta'd at all, and I haven't done much prereading. I had hoped to have a few chapters written in advance before I started posting again, but I really just want to be posting this. If any of you are near D.C. you should really go check out that memorial, it's just down the street from Union Station, there's a bell you can ring for the memory, and it's really quite moving.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been awhile. Sorry about that, rest assured though, that if I still have the story up on my account, it is never abandoned. If it were dead to me, then I would remove it from ~

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"Shikata ga nai" or "It can't be helped". It was a phrase that I'd heard many times growing up. My mother always made a point to try and speak in English if there was the chance that we would be overheard by our white neighbors, and I was always glad for it because it meant that I wouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment that some of my other Japanese friends did. Shikata ga nai though, was one exception. Whenever we would be treated differently because my parents and brother were immigrants she would always turn to Itachi and I and say that. It was always like she was trying to explain it to us, to impart some sort of perseverance onto us. I remember once, that some of the neighborhood boys had thrown rocks through our living room window, and my father had looked enraged, but my mother brought out the broom and dustpan, before quietly speaking into the furor of Itachi and my father's rage, as if almost to her self. Shikata ga nai. The room grew strangely quiet, and we all just worked silently to clean it up. I hated that phrase then.

We pulled into the grandstand with some trepidation, and I could see a mass of Japanese Americans crowded along the fence that lined the track. These were the people who'd gotten here days before, and they were watching for the arrival of friends or just to do something with the empty hours that had so viciously been thrust upon them. Mother casually scanned the line for faces she knew, but did not react if she did see anyone. I felt that it was a little pathetic, and didn't look past my own feet, instead following the black heels that my mother wore, always staying a few steps behind them. We were herded in the direction of the grandstand where we registered and filled out what seemed like a series of endless forms. Then our luggage was checked for contraband, and the Japanese readers that my mother had insisted that we bring along were confiscated. There was some deliberation on whether or not I could keep the goodluck charm from my grandmother, but it was declared harmless in the end and was thrown back into my bag gracelessly. Then we were given a quick medical check, and our housing was assigned.

We had wandered lost for awhile amidst the mud, before we'd found someone from the Buddhist temple we attended services at who was able to show us where we needed to go. I was glad, because I was tired, and I felt like there was something into my shoe. We passed black tar-papered barracks that had been shoddily put together to house the some eight thousand people who had been ousted from their homes. Our Barrack was not among these ones though. Ours was on the northern rim of the race track, beyond a row of seemingly too green eucalyptus trees. It was a long stable raised a few feet off of the ground. The entrance was a broad ramp that the horses had used to reach their stalls. Each stall was now numbered.

Our number was 37.

I was horrified. I turned looked to my brother, sure that my disbelief was evident on my face – just as it was on his face, but we couldn't linger too long, because our mother just continued to walk up the ramp that _horses_ used to look for our room. Not wanting to leave our mother alone too long, we both hurried to follow. The stable was clean and there was very little smell, though there were bits of straw that clung to the cracks in the flooring, yet another reminder of what used to be housed in this structure. When we reached number 37 my mother delicately walked into the room, glancing around the four yard by four yard area, as if sizing it up. I probably wouldn't have noticed the way that the corners of her lips tightened if I hadn't bee looking for it. She was just as horrified as we were, but she had never shown that kind of emotion to us. Instead of complaining though, Mother carefully and deliberately pulled off the gloves she'd worn and held them in her hand weakly.

I'll never forget the image. My slight framed mother framed by the door of the stable stall, looking around in the dusty light – her pink and lace dress seeming less vibrant than ever – and unpinning her hat with her now ungloved hands before looking over at the two of us with a falsely cheerful expression, while she spoke the words –

"Maa, shikata ga nai, boys,"

I felt such a sudden rush of hatred at those words, much more intense than when we'd had rocks thrown at our windows, but at what I wasn't quite sure. At whatever it was that was causing my mother to have to say those words with such a fake expression of cheer I suppose, but exactly who's fault that was, I didn't know. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see Itachi shaking his head, his lips pressed together into a thin line, before he dropped the bags he'd been carrying and turning on his heel and storming from the barracks completely.

"Itachi!" I called after him, but he ignored me. I frowned, not sure what to do, but my mother helped me to make up my mind.

"Sasuke," she said with that same fake look of 'everything's okay' on her face, "Why don't you go with Itachi and find us some beds while I get our room settled, neh?"

Nodding unsurely, I put my own bags down, and quickly ran after my brother, afraid that he'd leave the area entirely, and I wouldn't know where to find him. I didn't have to worry though, it seemed that Itachi had stopped just outside the door, looking out towards the guard towers, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Itachi?" I asked nervously, not sure how he was going to react. At first he ignored me as I cautiously approached him, but when I stopped just behind him, he glanced over his shoulder at me, a strange look in his eyes, and then turned to me fully.

"Doesn't it bother you?" he asked, almost bitterly

I was shocked that he'd even asked that question, and I puffed up my chest a little bit so I could respond to him in indignation, but he continued to speak, and I got the feeling that he was just airing all his feelings out, that he needed this.

"Of all of us, you're the only actual citizen," from the tightening of his eyes I could tell that it bothered him that he and our parents couldn't have the citizenship that I had only because I was born here, "Doesn't it bother you that your own county is locking you up? Like a criminal?"

And the thing was, it really really did. It had been a thought in the back of my head since we got here. This place wasn't a camp – it was a prison, and we'd done nothing to deserve our internment. I had such a turmoil of emotion laying behind that feeling. I was afraid that if I voiced it, that I could never take back the things I said.

"I... I'm... it can't be helped," I said bitterly, the words echoing what our mother just told us, and I felt the shame of hypocrisy descend on my shoulders as I glanced downwards towards the dirt ground, and me feet upon them. Itachi made a sound of disgust, but after a moment of silence I peaked up at him, and I heard him sigh before reaching out and poking the center of my forehead. It was his way of telling me it was okay – it always had been his way of telling me everything was okay, and I finally looked up at him fully, wondering if things really were okay.

Really though, what _could_ we do if it wasn't? It really couldn't be helped. We both knew it, and we both hated that feeling of helplessness. But now Itachi and I were standing outside of barrack 16, trying to figure out what to do from here. There was an awkward silence that came upon us, and as I was just about to open my mouth, to ask my brother what we should do from here there was a call from the next barrack over.

"Oi! Uchiha! Hisashiburi!" I turned to see who had called out. It was Kisame – one of Itachi's friends from our Japanese classes. I'd never really talked to Kisame much, he was in a few levels ahead of me in our classes, and spoke Japanese better than he did English. Itachi and he got along well though, so we were lucky to have been spotted by him.

When Kisame ran up to us in a light jog, he and my brother started talking in Japanese that I only mostly understood. They were mostly just catching up, as Kisame had been staying with an aunt in Seattle until he'd heard the knews of what was happening and came back to check on his dad.

"Yeah, he got arrested not too long ago though, the government is arresting anyone who so much as sent a postcard to Japan in the past six months" Kisame said, almost casually as he scratched at the space next to his mouth, "What about your dad huh? Did they get him too?"

Itachi pressed his lips together, "No," he said briefly, not breaking eye contact as he did. It took his friend a moment to understand, but he seemed to get it anyways.

"Ah sou," Kisame said, looking around a little awkwardly before barreling on in his confident manner, "That was your old man, huh? I'd _heard..._ oh well – I guess it's too late for koden(1), now that the funeral is over – not that anyone has anything right now..."

Itachi just shrugged with one of his shoulders, uncomfortable with where this conversation was going, before glancing around the track with a frown, "I don't suppose you know where I can get some mattresses for our cots, do you?" he asked, trying to change the subject. Kisame caught on, and seemed just as relieved that the subject had changed as Itachi and I were.

"I actually do," he said, "I've been here since yesterday, and it seemed like I've been helping everyone put their barracks together – though no one in barrack sixteen yet," he said, glancing up at our... barrack with disdain on his face.

"Why?" I asked somewhat rudely, a little shocked at my bluntness. Kisame had never really been one for charity, nor keeping a good public image. Rumor was that he'd been sent to Seattle by his dad because his dad was embarrassed that his son was as he was.

Kisame didn't seem to mind though, and he shrugged and put his hands in his pocket as we started to walk, "It's not like there's anything else to do around here, runt," he said before promptly ignoring that I existed, to talk with Itachi.

So with his help we went and got mattresses from the barrack they were being issued at – where we had to stuff the mattresses with straw ourselves – and made our way back to our apartment. Mother had enlisted help from the young girl who lived in the apartment next to ours to help sweep the room and it was looking a little cleaner when we got back. When us boys walked back into the room, the girl who helped our mother sweep stammered with a blush and made her way out as quickly as possible. After we had set up our cots, and managed our new 'home' to our liking, I sat down on the cot I had chosen for myself, and sighed. While we had been working, I hadn't had time to think about anything, but now that we had done as much as we could... well my insecurities came back full force.

As we had been getting the mattresses and walking here and there as Kisame showed us around I had noticed that nothing was finished. There were rough edges on every part of the assembly center, and it was obvious that more time had been needed to put everything together. It made me wonder why we couldn't have had a few more days to pack up our homes. The ten days had hardly been enough, and it hadn't... it hadn't been fair. It's not like giving us more time would have hurt anyone. No... people were just too scared to think about things rationally, and... it was really starting to sting that people were scared of us. Of me. What have I ever done? I skipped school once last year, but that was hardly anything deviant or malicious. There was no reason... for any of this, and my mind once more started to war with itself. Pride for my heritage verses shame from my birth country.

No one bothered me, as I had pushed my cot up against the wall and was laying on it with my back towards the room. Mother and Itachi conversed in low tones in Japanese that I couldn't quite catch. I had never been terribly good with Japanese, I had never lived there after all, and sometimes when mother, father, and Itachi spoke quickly I would get lost in the conversation. Mother and Itachi knew this, so I thought that they were probably talking about me. I didn't really care right then.

I think I fell asleep. I wasn't sure. I was vaguely aware of what was going on around me – it was too loud to not be aware – but time passed quickly. One moment I was pondering if I had heard Itachi said otousan, the next moment the sky had darkened and my mother was shaking me gently.

"Bangohan ga arimasu," time for dinner already? I didn't really have an appetite though, so I just sort of shrugged her hand off of my shoulder and rolled back over. This time I know I fell asleep. It was quieter, as everyone had gone to go get dinner, and dark enough that I slept somewhat restfully. I didn't wake up again until I felt someone pulling a blanket over me. I guess that our baggage had finally arrived from the thorough check it'd gone through. I snuggled up to the blanket – inhaling the scent of a home that was lost to me now, and fell back asleep.

* * *

(1) Koden is a practice of giving a family with a recently deceased member money to help pay for the cost of the funeral service in the thought that the grieving family will in turn give you koden if someone in your family were to die, its something that's very important to Japanese american's it seems, almost to the point of ridiculousness. It's kind of like a small loan, in a way. You give the same amount of koden that you received, or more back to the people who gave it. Some families **/**coughcough mine cough/ have koden ledgers, to make sure you give people the correct amount of koden.


End file.
